Ghost In The Machines
by spinsidious
Summary: Ben Winchester has taken his first steps to being a hunter. He has more trouble than he expects with a simple spirit until art student Dalton Lambert offers some tips. The amateur leading the amateur may just be worse than the blind leading the blind
1. Chapter 1

Ben Winchester allowed himself a small smile as his black 2008 Camaro took the curve on Foothill Freeway with ease, virtually purring at eighty. He decelerated when he saw the sign of his exit ramp.

"_Can't find his way to Pasadena _my ass," the smile became a smirk. It almost made him wish he was back in Indiana to see the look of reluctant surprise on Dean's face.

After seven years under his father's paranoid eye, he was giddy with his newfound freedom. All the pressure, the secrecy, the fighting, it was finally behind him.

Pasadena would be his first hunt, whether Dean agreed or not.

Ben rolled up to a stoplight and flipped open his cell phone, hitting the speed dial.

"Hey, I made it," he said as soon as the connection opened. He pulled through the light.

"I never doubted you, Ben," the relief in Sam Winchester's voice was unmistakable. "Are you near the college now?"

"Just reached the parking lot," Ben put the Camaro in park. He sat back in the seat and his face lit up with a grin that made him seem like a teenager again.

"This'll be a piece of cake, Sam. You taught me everything I could possibly need to take on a spirit."

"Don't rule other scenarios out so quickly, and don't be so cocky- I know I at least taught you better than that."

"Come on, this isn't rocket science," Ben protested. "The old school president died just before he could cut funding to the art program. Now there have been freak accidents with both the kiln and the graphic design copiers. Isn't it you that always says there's no such thing as a coincidence?"

"You're right, hunting's _worse _than rocket science. The benefits package sucks and if you're not dead by next Tuesday, you're the exception. Never take a situation for granted, and for God's sake, stop thinking you know everything after a few shooting lessons and some books I snuck you behind Dean's back."

Ben was silent. He didn't get why his uncle was suddenly acting so uptight. Until now, he'd been on Ben's side; he'd understood why Ben was so driven to hunt.

"I'm taking this seriously, stop worrying. I have bigger monsters to kill than some spook in Pasadena."

A sigh came crackling over the connection, "Don't be too proud to call me if you need help. You know I'm in Oregon on a vampire job."

"Vampires? I'd be watching my own back if I were you," Ben hung up the phone before Sam could reply.

He got out the car and grabbed a light bookbag from the backseat. He locked his doors and tucked his phone and keys into the smallest pocket.

The bag contained everything Ben would need for his first day of college: a hunting knife made of iron, a canister of salt, the EMF reader he'd rigged himself, and a Colt loaded with shells of rock salt.

The guidance counselor couldn't decide what to look at, the new student sitting before her, or the list of classes he'd slid across her desk.

"Is there a problem?" the student's hazel eyes studied her with a calmness that unsettled her.

"Well… your lab fees will be considerable, you understand."

"I'm fine with that."

Ms. Hastings glanced dubiously at the list. The student who'd introduced himself as Harry Price insisted he was only interested in taking Drawing 101, a studio art course, and Computer Design 200, a tech lab.

"There's also the problem of your credit hours…"

"What do you mean," for the first time, he seemed thrown off, a slight frown furrowing his eyebrows.

"You need at least ten hours per semester to be registered. Labs are worth a little more than normal classes, so right now you're at six credits, but you need four more."

Ben cursed inwardly. He was starting to get an idea of what his uncle had been warning him about; it seemed nothing was as easy as it was in theory.

"Is there a class worth four credits being offered this semester?"

"There's Biology, but it would come with more lab fees-"

"I told you, that's not a problem," Ben stood up. "Put me in the Bio class."

It wasn't like he would ever attend it anyway.

Ms. Hastings typed in his classes obediently, and sealed in his schedule with a tap of the enter key.

"There we are, now I'll just print you off a table with the times and rooms for your classes."

She glanced at the paper as it came out the printer, "It seems you're due in the art studio in thirty minutes. I'm sure the professor won't mind providing your materials for today's class, but you'll need to buy supplies for your classes from the school store when you get a chance."

Ben nodded, not even registering what she was telling him. Mentally, he was preparing for the situation he knew he was about to jump into feet first.

The guidance counselor trailed off mid-sentence as Harry Price turned and left her office. It would have been insulting, if she hadn't been so relieved to see him go. Something in that student's eyes unnerved her- he seemed to see more in one look than Ms. Hastings felt she would see in her lifetime.

Ben paused with his hand on the doorknob of the art studio and took a deep breath, his fingers flexing as he calmed his nerves. This was the moment he'd been preparing for.

On the other side of the door, something was wrong. Something strange and sinister had leaked into the normal world. As a hunter, it was his job to fix it.

The door hit the wall with a resounding bang when Ben threw it open, and he strode into the room only to find himself face to face with a tall, furious and paint-spattered artist.

"What the hell, man! This is a studio, not a flophouse. How many times do I have to tell you frat bastards, the couch here is not for sleeping off binges?"

"I'm not drunk."

Ben supposed he looked a bit rough; he'd driven straight through last night and hadn't had a chance to shave yet. Or change clothes.

The student gave up trying to smear the paint from his jeans, looking up at Ben with exasperation, "Okay, then mind explaining why you decided to imitate fuckin' Rambo there? You really screwed up my project, dammit…"

"The door was jammed, so I-" Ben narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"Why are you here anyway? The next class doesn't start for fifteen minutes."

The stranger indicated himself with a mixture of pride and irritation, "Art major, procrastination comes with the territory. I'm supposed to present a painting of mine today, so I figured I should at least paint it first."

He surveyed the canvas behind him and shook his head, "Well, I can't blame you for this one. Guess my heart wasn't as into it like usual."

With a sudden switch in mood, he turned back to Ben, "I'll admit, you scared the shit out of me. The name's Dalton Lambert- I haven't seen you around before, have I?"

"Harry Price."

"Like the ghost researcher?"

Ben couldn't hide his surprise. Dalton saw his expression and laughed.

"Don't look so shocked, I'm a bit of a paranormal fanatic. Something happened to me when I was younger," his smile faltered for a moment. "Guess I just haven't been able to shake it."

He gestured to the canvas, and Ben realized the painting was of a young woman dressed in antiquated clothing, doubled over. She was vomiting what appeared to be pins and needles. The shadowy form of a crone could be seen stooping over her, the hag's claw-like hands about to close around the young woman's throat.

"It's based on descriptions of the Bell Witch haunting," Dalton said. "I'm in the middle of a series of fictional movie posters done in oil paints. They're all based on classic hauntings."

Ben privately thought the idea was stupid. Horror movies were horrible only in their inaccuracies in portraying the real monsters, and the Bell Witch hadn't even been a ghost, it had been a poltergeist, a twisted one at that.

"Looks painful," he said. To his relief, other students began to arrive and Dalton excused himself to finish the painting. It gave Ben a reason to avoid him without coming up with an excuse.

As far as Ben was concerned, self-proclaimed "paranormal fanatics" were much more trouble than they had any right to be. His uncle told him countless stories about people with an interest in the supernatural getting in the way of hunts, including one instance when Sam and Dean had almost wound up arrested by the FBI for a bank robbery.

Ben made a mental note to stay as far away from Dalton as possible, and sat down in a distant corner of the studio, content to watch and wait.


	2. Chapter 2

The professor breezed into the studio ten minutes later, and addressed the class in a friendly tone. He didn't notice Ben sitting in the back of the room, and Ben was content to let it stay that way.

Dalton apparently managed to overcome his procrastination in the end. The canvas he showed to the class was complete; he had added at least a hundred minute touches since showing the painting to Ben. Ben had to admit it wasn't half bad.

After his presentation, the teacher assigned the class to break into two groups and practice thumbnail sketching with the still life stations set up around the room. Ben moved silently to join one of the groups.

Unfortunately, Dalton made a beeline for the same group, flashing Ben a languid smile.

Avoiding this guy was going to be a bit difficult, Ben realized grimly.

He did not return the smile, and turned deliberately to the student beside him.

"Hey, this is my first time in class; I don't have any supplies with me today. Can I borrow a sheet of paper to sketch on?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," the girl tore a page from her sketchpad and handed it to Ben.

He sat down beside the girl and pulled out a pen, beginning to doodle on the paper. He had no intention of actually doing the assignment, but it was important to look like he was.

"Thanks. I heard we do sculptures in this class too. What kind of sculpting do we learn, pottery?"

"Well, it changes every year," the girl said slowly. "Last year, it was glass blowing, and before that we worked with wire-"

"What Alice is trying to say is no, no pottery," a nearby guy added. "We'll be lucky to keep the kiln after Owen was dumb enough to burn his arm to a crisp in it."

"That's not fair, Kyle," Alice said. "It wasn't his fault."

"They called out some kind of inspector and everything," she confided to Ben with a glance, her pencil sketching lightly over her paper. "No one can figure out how his arm got stuck. There's supposed to be some kind of safety measure to keep that from happening, right?"

Ben shrugged. He didn't really know or care about the specifics of kiln engineering. He finished his drawing of a stick pirate and paused a moment to admire it before beginning to draw something else.

"So there was a kiln accident? Was this Owen guy alone when it happened?"

"No, it was during a demonstration," the student who had spoken up earlier, Kyle, seemed to have become a part of their conversation. He leaned against the table, his expression sly.

"I was there when it happened, you know. He kept screaming about how his arm was gone, I guess it just went numb or something. When they finally managed to pull him away from the kiln, his arm- well, what was left of it was black. The smell was awful."

"Sulfuric?" Ben asked. He doubted it was a demon, but there was no harm in covering his bases. He noticed with discomfort that Dalton was studying him intently.

"No, like burnt barbecue."

"I bet the heat was bad with the kiln still on. Did anyone open a door? Let in a draft?"

"Why would we notice how hot it was? A guy's arm just got toasted before our eyes, we were a bit preoccupied," Kyle said.

Ben was beginning to think that Kyle was a bit of an ass. He gave up on the horse he'd been attempting to doodle and set his pen down. Dalton was still visible in his peripheral, keeping the atmosphere creepy with his steady eyes. Ben didn't think he'd moved his pencil the entire time.

"It doesn't seem weird though?" Ben pressed on, determined to ignore the stare-down he was receiving.

"I mean, first Owen cooks his arm in the kiln, and then another student fries herself on a copy machine in the graphics lab. It's like the art department is cursed- or haunted, right?"

Alice and Kyle both looked up at him as if he had sprouted a second head.

"Look man… technology is cool, but it malfunctions sometimes. Doesn't mean a ghost made it happen," Kyle practically oozed condescension.

Ben ground his teeth and bore it; he was pretty sure stabbing another student would get him removed forcibly from campus.

"Right. Just thinking."

He focused on the sheet of doodles before him, hoping they would all take the hint that the conversation was over. After a few minutes, Ben found that even Dalton has given up his disturbing silent stare campaign.

With thirty minutes to kill before he could leave the campus unnoticed, Ben flipped his page over and began to pen a detailed comic in which Kyle the art student met a painful and untimely end.

"New kid! Wait up!"

Ben swore under his breath at the sound of the call from behind him. He almost kept walking, but then his irritation got the best of him and he turned to face Dalton. The art student was half-jogging to catch up with him.

"My name is Harry," Ben scowled.

Dalton shot him a withering look, stealing the paper dangling from Ben's fingertips.

"This is a really nice set of thumbnails, Harry. Your talent is…" he got his first good look at the doodles and his sarcasm faded into uncertainty. "Jesus Christ, you really suck dude."

"Give me that," Ben demanded. He snatched the paper back and crumbled it into a ball.

Dalton folded his arms, "You're taking a Studio Art and you're _definitely_ not an artist. You come in halfway through the school year, using the name of a famous ghost researcher, and you ask questions- poorly phrased, just so you know- about a haunting. The only way you could be any more obvious about what you're doing is if you tattooed 'Who Ya Gonna Call?' on your forehead."

Ben was about to retort when his attention was caught by the unknown reference.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ghost busters, ghost hunters, ghost facers," Dalton shook his head. "Call yourself a ghostologist for all I care, point is, you're an amateur."

The irony of a horror movie fan calling him a beginner was too much for Ben to take, "You think I'm an amateur?"

"No, I know you are. Whatever you think is going on here, you're mistaken."

"I think that you're insane. Leave the ghosts in your horror movies," Ben couldn't get away from this guy fast enough.

Unfazed, Dalton called out after him, "It's not a ghost, Price! It's something you're not ready to deal with!"

Ben didn't give him the satisfaction of stopping again.


	3. Chapter 3

After asking around the halls, Ben found out that the professor who had discovered the girl electrocuted by the copier was the same professor who taught Biology 100. For the first time all day, luck seemed to be on his side.

He wound up ten minutes late for the class, but he was still able to slip through the door and into a seat without attracting too much attention.

The professor, named Dr. Gallagher, was in the middle of berating the class.

"-and if I catch anyone trying to boil _ramen_ on the Bunsen burners again, that lucky student will help me clean the lab equipment for the rest of the semester, am I clear?"

She folded her arms across her chest as her eyes scanned the class. After a moment, she sighed, "Today, since all of you apparently missed the day laboratory safety was taught at your high school, I'm going to go back to the basics. Any one of you know how to sterilize dissection equipment? No? Very well, let's move to the lab and I'll show you."

Dr. Gallagher made a sharp motion toward the back of the room. The class stood up and began a mass migration to the lab table. Ben made sure he blended into the crowd, content to watch and wait until class was over to speak with the professor.

She found a scalpel and held it up.

"This is a _scalpel_. You blockheads at least know what that is, right? It's made of steel, so to sterilize it after you use it, all you need is clean water and heat."

She walked away and flipped a switch on the wall, "You can get that heat using the Bunsen burners at any of the stations. The Bunsen burners only work when the natural gas is turned on, like I just did.

"Even with the natural gas running, there's a second defense so that you don't blow yourself sky high with the burner. To properly expose the flame to the oxygen it needs, you need to slide open the vents at the base of the burner."

She demonstrated what she was talking about, then ran her fingers up the length of rubber tubing that connected the Bunsen burner to the natural gas nozzle.

"This tube connects the burner to its source of fuel. We check the tubing for cracks or tears every afternoon, but it doesn't hurt to make sure there's no damage to the tube. Everything done to lower the risk of you guys blowing up the lab is less our insurance company has to pay."

"Now, the natural gas still won't flow to the burner until you move this lever on the gas nozzle. I cannot stress this enough, _do not yank the lever all the way over_. You need to push it maybe a quarter turn, at most. Any further and you risk making your flame too strong."

Dr. Gallagher moved the lever carefully, then picked up a metal tool Ben wasn't familiar with.

"This is a striker. You have to squeeze and push the two sides at the same time to make a spark. Hold it to the side of the burner like so and…"

She tried to spark the striker and failed, "Well, it can be a bit finicky."

Ben's attention had wandered, but it was brought back immediately by the _fwoosh_ of a large scale flame and a sudden barrage of screams.

It seemed the professor had not taken her own advice and overestimated how much gas she would need. The Bunsen burner had become a fountain of flames, gushing an awesome wave of heat that buckled the ceiling tiles and rippled over the panicking students. The water sprinklers kicked on, but they did absolutely nothing to help.

Ben's training kicked in and he shouted loud enough to be heard over the roar of the blaze.

"_Everyone head for the door at the front of the classroom NOW._"

Those who were closest to him, Ben began to push in the direction of the door as he made his way over to the burner. Once the other students got the idea, he had to fight against the tide of bodies. He cursed his bow-legged stature, not for the first time.

Ben finally made it to the lab table, the heat from the burner blistering against his forearms as he raised them to protect his face. He tried to locate the teacher, but as soon as he saw the motionless, charred form slumped over a different lab table, he knew she was a lost cause. He checked for pulse out of habit, and moved on when he found none.

It then became his single-minded goal to shut off the burner, aware that the fire would be impossible to put out as long as the pillar of fire continued to feed off the school's natural gas supply.

His first impulse was to try the lever he'd watched the professor nudge open mere minutes ago. The reward for quick thinking this time was a seared hand and the unpleasant realization that it was now his own flesh he smelled burning.

After another moment of thought, he cursed his own stupidity and sprinted to the back wall, groping blindly through the smoke that was stinging his eyes. Ben's injured hand protested painfully as it came in contact with the switch, but he ignored the discomfort and pulled the switch down forcefully.

He took a moment to be sure the Bunsen burner had really stopped putting out flames. With the ceiling now burning merrily, it was hard to tell through the smoke, but the roar of natural gas being incinerated at an alarming rate had faded to the crackling of more solid materials crackling.

He left the rest of the disaster for the fire department to deal with.

As he jogged out of the same door his fellow classmates had stampeded through, Ben grabbed his bag, slowing to a walk to blend in with the rest of the students crowded in the evacuating halls.

He didn't lower his guard until he was breathing the fresh air of the parking lot across the street, the black smoke of the burning building already visible high in the sky behind him if he felt like looking.

Ben had a feeling this latest incident had burned more than a few holes in his ghost principal theory.

"I'm telling you, she took every precaution when she was setting up the burner. She was giving a goddamn safety lecture, what kind of teacher would be dumb enough to make a mistake while showing students how not to make mistakes?"

Ben ran his bandaged fingers through his hair, flopping back on his motel bed. Miles away, Sam continued his cross-examination of Ben's first day hunting.

"So, it wasn't the professor's fault. Do you still think it's spirit activity?"

"No," Ben said. "No cold spots, no telekinesis bullshit- the lever, vents, and switch were in the same place Dr. Gallagher left them."

He had the shiny, blistered palm to prove he'd seen that fact more closely than he would have preferred.

"Besides, it doesn't fit the principal's hypothetical MO. He used to be the science department head himself. It was well known that he thought the arts were a waste of time, but there was no reason for him to attack his own major."

"I told you not to go in without an open mind," Sam reminded him, to Ben's irritation.

"Honestly, I don't even know if there's a case here, Sam. The lab accident just looked like pure mechanical failure."

"Coincidences don't happen in our line of work, as Dean likes to say. No, your instincts weren't wrong here, Ben, it just wasn't a ghost."

Sam's statement caught Ben's attention, and he made a connection with a groan.

"That creepy bastard was actually right!"

"Come again?" Sam asked.

Ben told him about his encounter with the art student, Dalton, earlier that morning, including their confrontation in the hallway. The revelation piqued Sam's interest.

"And you didn't ask him what he thought? He might have known something."

"And he might have been a pretentious bag of bullshit," Ben said. "I didn't want to waste my morning chasing a fairy tale about aliens and Bigfoot conspiring with the American government to deprive the public of the next great generation of art students."

"I take it he rubbed you the wrong way."

Ben thought back to Dalton's enthusiastic attitude, infused with a streak of conceit.

"Like sandpaper made of broken glass and poison ivy."

"Well pull on your big boy panties and deal with it," Ben winced at the voice on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, the trip here was fine, thanks for asking, Dean."

His adoptive father ignored him, "You signed up for this job, kid. The benefits of hunting are meeting assholes, hiding from bureaucratic assholes, and shitting out questionable food until you no longer have an asshole. Occasionally, you get to _kill_ an asshole."

"Give the phone back to Sam."

There was a pause, then Dean gave him a curt piece of advice, "Follow every lead, kid. It's usually the most ridiculous one that's true."

The sound of annoyed voices and hands fumbling the phone could be heard over the line, then Sam was back, apologetic.

"He took it when I wasn't paying attention; you know how he is-"

"Forget it," Ben said. "Do you have any advice about this job, Sam?"

"I think Dean's right about this one," Sam said. "Talk to the art student. If he knows something you don't, you need to convince him to tell you what is going on."

"Torture is always an option," Ben said under his breath.

To Sam, he said something a little less threatening, "I guess I can ask around and find him. It's not like I have any other leads to go on- my last one blew up."

Privately, he hoped the same would happen to this one.

"I'll do some research into paranormal mechanical failure when I can," Sam promised. "Until then, take care of yourself, Ben."

"I will," Ben closed his phone and sat up, looking around his motel room moodily. As much as he hated to admit it, Dalton Lambert really had become his only link to this hunt.

The idea of seeking out the art student after their shouting match in the hall this morning made Ben even more irritable, but it couldn't be helped.

Hopefully, Dalton hadn't eaten lunch yet either; Ben was starving.

If he knew a good burger place nearby, he might even gain some respectability in Ben's eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Ben went back to the art studio and questioned a dozen people before even discovering where Dalton lived. It appeared that, despite his open personality, Dalton didn't have many close friends, maybe not even any at all.

It wasn't until Ben began to describe the guy he was looking for as "the artist who does the ghost pictures" that he even got others to recognize Dalton's name.

One harried girl sketching madly with charcoal paused long enough to reveal that Dalton liked to grab lunch at a deli about a block from campus.

Ben left his Camaro in the parking lot and walked down to the restaurant. He glanced at the network of police cars and fire trucks still trying to quench the embers simmering in the ruins of the science building as he passed.

The deli had a neon sign that proudly proclaimed it to be The House of Pan. Ben had no idea what it was referencing, but he wasn't sure he wanted to.

He stepped inside the small, but pristine shop and looked around. Dalton was sitting in by the window that looked out on the street. He'd noticed Ben coming in, and now he watched Ben with apprehension.

Ben seated himself across from the art student and looked him in the eye.

"If it's not a ghost, what exactly do you think is going on here?"

A bright smile spread immediately across Dalton's features, and his brown eyes sparked with relief.

"You believe me- what made you come around?"

"I was there at the lab explosion, and that was no ghost. I still think it's something supernatural though, and from what you insinuated, you have a different theory, so spill."

Ben paused to grab a passing waitress's sleeve, "Can I have an Italian foot-long and a Coke? Thanks."

He turned back and found Dalton studying him just as avidly as he had been in class that morning.

"What motivates you?" the art student asked.

"This isn't twenty questions. I ask things, you answer them."

"Then what do I get out of it?" Dalton pointed out. "I want a fair trade here."

"What kind?"

"I give you information; you let me investigate with you."

"Hell no," Ben scowled.

"Then I don't tell you anything," the Cheshire smile on Dalton's face as he leaned back in his chair motivated Ben to homicide in a way that rivaled the fury his father could instigate, but the set of his folded arms told Ben he wasn't going to be moved on this point.

"Fine."

The waitress brought him his drink and he took great pleasure in stabbing the straw through the lid. After a moment of calming himself, he began to speak in a halting, low voice. Dalton had to lean forward to understand.

"Hunting supernatural things… it's kind of a family business. My adoptive dad travels the country with his brother. Both of them were trained by their father, and all three are well known for handling ghosts and monsters. Dean, my dad met my mom that way. I came along from a different one night stand but… well, things happen, right? I didn't even know I had a father for eight years; my mom raised me on her own."

Ben smiled faintly at the memories, "Then Dean came back, and the things he hunted came with him."

The smile faded.

"I was abducted by a colony of changelings the day after my eighth birthday. He saved me, and my mother. Then he was off again and I didn't see him again until I was eleven. He tried to settle down with my mom. I even thought of him as my father… but the supernatural doesn't let people go so easily.

"After a really dangerous situation, Dean left us again, with a certain kind of protection. It wasn't enough though."

"This time, he wasn't around to keep the latest monster from ripping my mother to shreds. He heard what happened and came for me, took me in, tried to raise me like a normal kid.

"But by then, I was fifteen. No matter how hard he tried to steer me away from hunting, I'd made a promise to myself."

Ben looked up at Dalton, "I don't want anyone to die like my mother did."

He shook his head and tried to get control of his emotions. Dalton's patient listening had pulled out a lot more information than Ben had originally intended to give.

"You and I are a lot more alike than you think," Dalton said.

Ben laughed, "Oh, right, I suppose you watched your mother die screaming?"

"Yes, in fact, my father killed her," Dalton said.

If anyone had turned out to be the asshole in this situation, Ben had a feeling it wasn't the art student sitting across from him.

After a long silence, Ben tried clumsily to mend the rift, "It's hard to remember sometimes that in my business, everyone has a story to make your blood freeze. Sorry I was such a-"

"Jerk?" Dalton supplied.

Ben acknowledged the jab as a fair one.

"Our suck-ass origin stories aside, what is going on at this college?"

"If I tell you this and you flake out on me, I swear to God, I will-"

"No worries. You seem to understand the situation better than I do anyway."

"Well, I thought it was a ghost at first too," Dalton said. "It seemed to fit. But then I noticed a more specific pattern. I just need to confirm something before I share. That fire in the biology lab, was Dr. Gallagher involved with it?"

"Yeah, she sparked the burner that went nuclear," Ben failed to see how that was relevant. It seemed that small detail was much more significant to Dalton.

"I knew it! It's a gremlin," Dalton said.

There was a pause, and the sheer ridiculousness of what Dalton had just said sank in. Ben chose his words with extreme care.

"Are you high?"

Dalton continued, determined to make his case, "It makes sense, if you've taken the time to do the research- which I have. Gremlins are creatures that screw with machinery, the first time anyone really took notice of them was in World War I when there were a large number of unexplained mechanical failures. Once they attach themselves to a person, they don't stop pestering them until they are forcibly removed or their victim is dead."

"And what exactly made you so sure about it being a gremlin just from the fact that Gallagher sparked her own funeral pyre?" Ben demanded.

"Oh, she was the latest in the chain. See, I'm guessing Owen picked up the gremlin somewhere off-campus, I haven't been able to trace it to someone else. After his accident, however, a clear trail of transfer comes out. The person who turned off the kiln was Penny Harwell-"

"The girl who died in the copy machine," Ben caught on.

Dalton nodded encouragingly, "You see? And from there, it moved to Dr. Gallagher, the professor who found Penny and pulled her from the machine. I heard she unplugged the copier before getting near the body."

"My theory is that whoever turns off the machine effected by the gremlin becomes the latest victim."

"How much research have you done about gremlins?" Ben found he was impressed in spite of himself.

Dalton smiled in his crooked way, "How much do you want to know?"

Ben drained the last of his Coke to wash down the sandwich and balled his napkin up thoughtfully.

"Okay, so you think this thing will still be in the lab tonight?"

"They're most active after midnight. If we confront it by eleven, I think we could even catch it by surprise."

"And what do you suspect it's weak against? I'm guessing gremlins aren't repelled by salt like spirits are."

"Well, they could be considered a part of fairy lore, I guess iron would work," Dalton ventured.

Ben arched an eyebrow, "You're telling me creatures that get their jollies using machines to kill people in stupidly complicated ways have a problem with iron?"

"Superman was weak against a material from his home planet," Dalton shrugged.

After a moment of thinking, Ben stood up, "I'll trust you on this one. But we're bringing extra defenses in anyway. I won't have a civilian dying because I wasn't prepared."

"I hardly count as a civilian," the art student scoffed and stood as well.

Ben bit back the retort that leaped to his tongue and threw a few crumpled bills onto the table to pay for his meal. He led the way out of the sandwich shop, then fell into step beside Dalton.

"I have some weapons in the trunk of my car. It's not a fantastic idea to give a novice a gun, but a poker or one of my duller machetes I could live with. At the least, you can wield the flashlight."

"_One_ of your machetes? Just how many do you have?"

Dalton discovered exactly how many machetes Ben had when Ben threw open the hidden compartment in his trunk.

His mouth dropped open, "Holy _shit_. Why do you need this many weapons- do you even know how to use half of them?"

"All of them, as a matter of fact. With quite a bit of accuracy too, so don't piss me off," Ben bent over the trunk, rummaging through his collection at random.

"Iron… I have quite a bit of it, actually. It works against ghosts as well. I'll carry a shotgun and some knives. And for you I have a flashlight and… well, you can either borrow my machete or a bowie knife," he straightened and turned around. Leaned against the bumper of the Camaro, he waited for Dalton's answer.

Dalton looked from him to the trunk bristling with weapons and back, and the reality of the situation finally hit him.

He laughed and shook his head, "You know, when I woke up this morning, my only problem was getting my painting done for Studio. Gremlins were a hypothetical, and the paranormal was my hobby. Now…"

"It's too much," Ben nodded. Though he was no longer violently opposed to Dalton's presence, he wasn't surprised about his change of heart. There were a lot of people who found themselves fascinated with the supernatural. It was a rare few who could face the supernatural down and destroy the monsters that waited just out of sight.

"No," Dalton looked genuinely shocked by Ben's assumption. "Are you kidding me? This is everything I ever dreamed of, everything I could never… well, it seemed like an unattainable goal."

Ben didn't know how to respond to the art student's outpouring emotions. Feelings in general had never been his forte, and as far as the supernatural was concerned, he'd wished more than a few times that it didn't exist. Vindication had never entered the picture.

"Bottom line is, I'm glad I finally get to be a part of a world I've been kept from for so long," Dalton smiled, picking up a machete decisively.

"We can't just go charging in with the fire crew still lurking around the science building," Ben tossed the machete back into the trunk and shut it.

"Until tonight, we need to find something to do."

Dalton's eyes flashed, and he checked his phone, "Dammit!"

"Something wrong?"

"No, just…" the look of reluctance on Dalton's face was one Ben was all too familiar with. "See, I was supposed to have dinner with my family today, but I think I missed my ride. I need to get to Montecito Heights."

Ben thought for a moment, "Over toward LA? I could take you."

"No, I couldn't ask you to do that for me," Dalton frowned.

"Oh please, it's a twenty minute drive, and it's better than sitting around with my thumb up my ass until it gets dark. I can find some way to amuse myself until you finish with your family time."

"Or you could have dinner with us," Dalton ventured.

It was Ben's turn to balk at a suggestion, "I don't think I'm exactly dressed for a family dinner."

He definitely looked better than he had this morning, however. When he'd reached his hotel, Ben had taken a shower to wash some of the ashes and soot from his skin, and he'd pulled on clean jeans and a tee shirt, but he was also wearing his favorite jacket, which was more than a little battered.

"It's not like we're high class society," Dalton was nonplussed. "At least save me from my grandmother's company, please? Seriously, shewon't get on my case half as much if you're there."

"Fine," Ben was gruff. "Just… get in the car and we'll see when we get there."

He walked around to the driver's side and climbed in; throwing his bag into the backseat so Dalton could settle into the passenger side.

"You know, you're really toeing the line of becoming more trouble than you're worth."

"Oh, but I am worth it," Dalton shot back. "I'm like the paranormal MacGyver- you can't do this without me."

"Don't test me," Ben said, but he shook his head more out of amusement than annoyance. If he could say anything for Dalton, it was that the guy had a way of getting under your skin when he wanted to.


	5. Chapter 5

In the end, Dalton was more persuasive than Ben had braced himself for, and it wasn't long before he found himself stepping into the foyer of the home.

A guy, who looked like a carbon copy of Dalton, only slightly younger, stuck his head around the corner. His eyes widened in surprise when he found Ben standing uncomfortably near the entrance.

"Hey, Gran, we have company!"

"Who is it, Foster?" a girl's voice piped up.

"Dunno, never seen him."

"Well, don't just leave him standing in the hall," an elderly woman bustled into sight, smiling at Ben in a way he recognized as a masterful combination of courtesy and suspicion. Her hair was more grey than it was black, and a spider network of lines radiated from around her eyes, but the woman seemed just as capable and alert as a woman half her age.

"Just who might you be, young man?"

"Gran!" Dalton ducked in the door behind Ben, smiling in a way that seemed forced compared to his usual attitude.

"This is a transfer student I met today, his name is-"

"Ben," Ben interrupted quickly. He wasn't as concerned about keeping his alias around people unrelated to the job, and he'd decided on the car drive over to tell Dalton his real name soon enough anyway.

"Ben Winchester."

Dalton shot him a quizzical look, but shrugged the name change off with admirable ease.

"You didn't tell me we would be having company this evening, Dalton, where are your manners?" Mrs. Lambert reproached her eldest grandson. She gestured to a teenaged girl who was peeking around the corner of the foyer.

"Cali, you might as well set an extra place at the table."

And that was Ben's abrupt introduction to the rest of Dalton's family. There were no protests about his presence, just a curious acceptance that gave Ben the feeling he wasn't the first friend Dalton had brought home unannounced.

Ben was asked the expected questions, like where he was from and why he had moved to Pasadena, but after the pat inquiries, he was able to sit back and enjoy Lorraine Lambert's impressive cooking without so much as a word.

Dalton's younger siblings, Foster and Cali, did most of the talking, telling Dalton about what was going on in their lives, competing for his attention in a way that brought to mind puppies vying eagerly for affection. It was obvious Dalton doted on them.

Lorraine, their grandmother, was not nearly as affectionate. She was warm enough with Cali and Foster, but when she addressed Dalton, her manner became reserved and stiff. The dichotomy perplexed Ben.

After several more hours of chatter in the living room, with the mildly uncomfortable presence of Lorraine secluded in the kitchen cleaning up, Ben checked his phone and caught Dalton's eye.

Dalton nodded, but waited patiently for Foster to finish a story he was telling about a fight he'd had with a boy at his school before standing with an apologetic smile.

"It's been great seeing you guys, but Ben has somewhere to be tonight, and he's my ride home."

"You have to go so soon?" Cali protested. She and Foster stood as well.

"Why can't you spend the night here? You never stay here anymore…"

"I have to study for my classes, Cali, an artist's procrastination never ends," Dalton told her gently.

"You'll come back soon?"

"Of course, you have my word," the art student beamed and ruffled his sister's hair.

He called out to the kitchen near the back of the house, "Gran, we're gone!"

Ben waved good bye to Cali and Foster with an awkward attempt at a smile and stepped out the house, tossing his keys from hand to hand.

He found Dalton waiting for him impatiently, no sign of a smile on his face, his hand clasped loosely around the handle of the passenger side door.

Ben unlocked the vehicle and slid into the driver's seat, then switched on the ignition.

"So, I guess we haven't been properly introduced," Dalton said after a moment.

Ben shot him a sideways glance, "Look, Harry was my cover at school. In my line of business, you don't want your real name getting dragged across the country."

"Is that another cover you gave to my family, then?"

"Nope," Ben began to back out the driveway smoothly. "The name's Ben Winchester. It would be pointless to lie to you at this point."

"It was pointless to lie to me before," Dalton muttered.

Ben performed a rolling stop at the stop sign marking the end of the cul-de-sac and gave Dalton an irritated look, "Well goddamn, Sunshine, if I had known my purpose in this world was to tell every stranger I met my crappy life story, I would have written my autobiography by now."

"You're right, sorry," Dalton sighed, raising a hand in the sign of a truce. "Really, I am. These family dinners get to me is all, I'll be okay in a bit."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the faint music coming from a classic rock station Dalton had found.

"She treats you differently from your siblings," Ben commented eventually. "Why is that?"

Dalton was mute for so long, Ben began to suspect he wasn't going to answer at all.

"Let's just say I could never give her what she really wants from me."

He reached forward suddenly and turned up the radio, then propped his chin on his hand, watching the street lights fly by as they sped back to Pasadena.

Ben pulled up in the same parking lot he'd found this morning and turned off the Camaro, scoping out the school carefully.

All of the emergency vehicles were gone, though police and caution tape still surrounded the area of the destroyed building. Every now and then, a breeze would catch some ashes and they would swirl up into the air, vanishing into the night.

"Are you ready for this?" Ben asked Dalton, studying him dubiously. Dalton hadn't said a word since he'd turned up the radio twenty minutes ago.

"Give me a machete and a flashlight and I could handle this myself," Dalton announced with a bit more of his usual enthusiasm.

"Right, I forgot. Supernatural MacGyver," Ben rolled his eyes and left the car.

They retrieved their weapons of choice from the trunk and crossed the road. Ben motioned for Dalton to follow him in the side of the building rather than the front.

The debris snapped and disintegrated under their feet as they began to walk among the ruins, sending up puffs of grit. Ben shined his flashlight over the indistinct shapes, throwing the destroyed lab equipment into sharp relief.

"So, MacGyver, if you were a creature that spent its life causing mechanical misery, where would you lurk?"

"They like dark places, small and cramped," Dalton thought out loud, swinging the beam of his flashlight around. "Maybe a file cabinet, or…"

"A cooler?" Ben volunteered, tapping the stainless steel door that was still clinging precariously to the frame of a walk-in cooler, meant to hold temperature sensitive chemicals.

In response to his knock, a frantic scampering could be heard behind the door. Ben pressed a finger to his lips in clear warning to Dalton, and set his flashlight on the nearest lab table still intact with its light glaring squarely on the cooler door.

He readied his machete and waited for Dalton to do the same, before kicking the door off its hinges.

Something small and furry flew out of the cooler. Ben saw it, but Dalton was faster than he was in reacting, an impressive feat. With a yell, Dalton brought his machete down forcefully on the creature. There was a squeak, then silence.

"I killed it?" Dalton asked with urgency.

Ben frowned and grabbed his flashlight, shining it on the floor.

He swore, "Yeah, you killed it all right. You may want to warn the school administration about the rat problem, this thing is freaky big."

Both stared at the pulped corpse of the rodent for a moment, Ben in thought, Dalton in disgust.

"Wait, Ben," Dalton took a step back as some new realization hit him. "Those sounds we heard, even for a rat this size that was way too much noise."

Ben stiffened and whirled around in time to take a swing at a howling shape that came hurtling out of the gaping maw of the cooler.

He caught in on the flat of the machete and completed the blow baseball style. The creature hit the wall beside the cooler with a dull thud. It shrieked with outrage and scampered out of sight alarmingly fast, but not before Ben and Dalton got a good look at it.

The gremlin was about three feet tall and it hunched forward, using its elongated arms to propel itself just as much as its hind legs. Its hands were obscenely dexterous, each finger tipped with a delicately shaped claw.

The gremlin's body was basically humanoid in shape, and it had pale grey skin covered in dark, wiry fur from the waist down, accompanied with a ruff of fur around his neck and tufts of longer hair in its large, tattered ears, currently laid back against its head in hostility.

The creature turned its face away quickly, but not before Ben caught a glimpse of a mouth bristling with needle-like teeth and deep, wide-set eyes that glimmered with wicked intelligence.

Despite its size, this thing had the potential to be a formidable opponent.

"Shit!" Ben vaulted onto a lab table as the gremlin darted toward him. He swiped at it as it passed under him, but the creature was moving too fast.

"Dalton, watch out!"

Dalton braced himself, his machete held in front of him in a nervous defensive pose, but the precaution was unnecessary. The gremlin had set its sights firmly on the person to slam it like a homerun; also, Ben realized, the person to turn off its last mechanical malfunction.

It chittered loudly and leaped into the air, landing on the lab table beside Ben.

The second addition of foreign weight was too much for the table to bear, and it buckled with a groan. Ben rolled away into the ash drifts on the floor, grappling with the vicious creature on top of him.

He struggled to fend off the gremlin with one hand while he groped inside his jacket for his gun with the other. He pulled out the weapon and squeezed off two shots.

The bullets passed through the gremlin's shoulder and stomach like they would through smoke.

"Hurt by iron, huh?!" Ben yelled to Dalton. "Jesus Christ, just get this thing off me!"

Dalton stepped closer, drawing his machete back to swing, but before he could intervene, Ben threw the creature off by himself.

He was back on his feet in an instant. Without the element of surprise, the gremlin had much less of an advantage. It appeared to realize as much, because it prowled just out of Ben's reach.

It stopped long enough to bare its fangs at Ben with a hateful hiss, then scampered nimbly up the wall and through one of the large holes burned in the ceiling.

"Yeah, you better run!" Ben roared. He aimed his gun at the hole for a moment, then dropped it, frustrated.

"That was unbelievable," Dalton said hoarsely. He looked shell shocked.

Ben turned to glare at him, "I'll say. I couldn't quite believe how well that iron worked."

Dalton flushed, "I might have made a mistake classifying it as one of the fairies."

"No. I made the mistake," Ben snapped. He took the machete from Dalton's hands and tucked his gun back into his jacket roughly.

"I broke one of the most basic rules of a hunt: No civilians. No exceptions. Your part in this is through, Lambert."

He began to walk away. After a stunned pause, Dalton came after him, following him across the street.

"Wait just a second! You wouldn't even know what was going on if it weren't for me. You can't just cut me out of this-"

"I can and I am. What do you think you're important for, research? I have an uncle who can do that better than anyone. He at least wouldn't screw up like you did."

"I'm going to go after the gremlin whether you go with me or not," Dalton retorted.

"Yeah? Then I'll just have to kill it first. When it's over, you should probably thank me for saving your ass from certain death, but just do me a favor and think of the whole thing as a really fucked up nightmare. Now _go home_," Ben snarled. He threw the spare weapons into the trunk and slammed it shut.

He climbed into the car and shut the door, glancing out the window as he turned the car on. Dalton stood beside the car, looking furious.

With a sigh, Ben rolled down his window, "Look. This really is for your benefit. Go back to your dorm, go back to painting your classic hauntings. Hell, maybe even paint something happy for a change. Go back to the way things were."

He pulled out of the parking lot without another word, and Dalton disappeared from his rearview mirror as he peeled out around the corner.


	6. Chapter 6

Ben tried to listen to the radio as he drove back to the hotel, but even the classic rock stations weren't playing anything good. After hearing "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" on the third station in the last five minutes, Ben finally shut the radio off and simmered in silence.

Trusting information without checking the source was an amateur's mistake. If Sam found out he'd charged in so recklessly, he'd never let Ben live it down, and Ben didn't even want to think about what Dean would say.

He couldn't afford to make those mistakes, not if he wanted to survive long enough to find out and kill what ripped apart his mother.

Ben reached his motel and pulled up in the spot in front of the door to his room- his car squealed in protest. He took his foot off the brake, startled, but the squeal only continued, building in volume until it sounded like a tea kettle. Ben checked his panic and eased the car into park patiently. Once it was safely turned off, the sound ceased, and he got out and inspected what he could see.

There was no sign that something had been damaged, but Ben suspected the sound was coming from something under the hood anyway.

He shook his head, exasperated; he just couldn't seem to catch a break tonight. He was going to at least have to see what was wrong with his car before he went to sleep, and he had to call Sam too, and explain he needed tips on researching gremlins.

Might as well do one while preparing for the other.

Ben speed dialed Sam and moved around to the trunk.

"This is Sam, leave a message."

"Hey, my source gave me some new leads, but I can't trust his information," Ben began to rummage around the back of his car as he obeyed the voicemail's command.

"Can you do some research on gremlins for me? Specifically how to kill them. Get back to me as soon as you can, I don't want another accident here."

He shut the phone off and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans, lugging his tool kit out of his trunk.

"All right, let's see what's wrong with you," Ben addressed the car absently as he walked around it. He set his tool kit on the nearest curb and popped the hood. When he lifted it, an acrid odor rose to fill his nose.

Ben used his arm to shield the lower part of his face quickly as his eyes began to water, "What the hell?"

Parts of the transmission appeared to have melted, bits of metal, plastic, wiring, and oil all fused into steaming, semi-solid masses. Ben put two and two together and became furious.

"Machine attacking little bastard you just made the _wrong_ move," he growled, slamming down the hood. He pulled out his gun and began to drag open the car doors. He searched the car from top to bottom, in every small nook and cranny he could think of.

It all seemed to be in vain; the gremlin was nowhere in sight.

Ben finished checking the trunk and shut it, scowling. It was one thing for a creature he was hunting to attack him; it was way out of line for the monster to attack his car.

Pissed off, tired, and sore from his struggle with the gremlin, as well as his heroics in the lab fire earlier that day, Ben left his poor injured car for the night, mentally promising to get it to a mechanic after he slept.

He had just unlocked the door to his room, when Ben heard a car's brakes screech as they locked up. He turned to find a taxi parked haphazardly near the road. A familiar form came barreling out of the cab.

"Don't open that door!" Dalton called out. He looked panicked.

Ben groaned, "Dammit, what part of 'go home' is so hard for you to understand?"

He pulled open his door, and for the second time that night, he was attacked by a speedy ball of limbs and teeth. This time it caught him off guard, and Ben went sprawling onto the asphalt, cracking his head painfully.

He tried to throw the gremlin away from him and slide away, but it rolled with him, its claws digging pinpoints of pain into his shoulder blades. Ben fell back, smashing it between his weight and the ground. The creature snarled and lashed out at him, gouging white hot trails down his back with the larger claws on its feet.

"Ben, get out the way," through his struggle, Ben heard Dalton's voice, and something in his tone made him react without thinking. He dove clear of the gremlin which remained still, surprised at the sudden release.

It never got another chance to move; Dalton poured out a bucket of something onto it without ceremony. Immediately upon contact, the liquid began to sizzle, the smell of burning metals coming from the gremlin's dissolving skin.

It screamed once in pain, then fell to gibbering, its eyes focused solely on Ben as it writhed on the ground. Ben watched as the liquid ate through first its skin, then its muscle, organs, and finally its bones.

In mere minutes, nothing was left of the thing that had caused so much damage but an oily puddle in the parking lot of a cheap motel.

"What did you do to it?" Ben asked with sick fascination.

"Water," Dalton spoke calmly. "It's their weakness. The Chinese knew how to deal with gremlins, though they referred to them as the _mogwai_. It's why the gremlin was hiding in the cooler when we found it; it was taking shelter there from the hoses the firemen were using earlier."

Both stared at the puddle for a moment more, then Dalton spoke again.

"Can you stand?"

"Yeah, no problem," Ben winced slightly as he stood up; he could feel the blood trickling down his back from where the gremlin had clawed him.

Dalton nodded, "Good. Go clean yourself up, I'm going home."

He glanced at Ben over his shoulder as he walked away, "Oh, and you should probably thank me for saving your self-righteous ass from certain death. Just something to think about."

With that, he was gone.

The next morning dawned, and Ben found himself parked, once again, outside of Pasadena Community College. He leaned against his car, watching the students entering the front gate carefully.

"Didn't think you would still be in town," the voice came from behind him. Dalton stood on the other side of his car, studying him with an unreadable expression.

"How do you feel?"

"Like crap," Ben answered honestly. He'd cleaned and bandaged the gashes on his back, but they still hurt like hell, and his head wasn't feeling any better.

"I had to wake up first thing this morning to go find a new transmission for my car, so I didn't get much sleep."

"Where are you going next?"

"Dunno," Ben shrugged. "Montana. Maybe Wyoming. There are a few options."

"Good luck," Dalton nodded to him briefly and began to walk toward the school.

"Wait!"

The art student pulled up short, frowning at him, "What? You're going to make me late."

Ben swallowed his pride, "I'm… sorry. About the things I said last night. Messing up in the lab- that was my fault, I shouldn't have blamed you."

"I was trying just as hard as you were."

"I know. Like I said, it's hard to remember not everyone has the same training I do, even if they do have similar motivation."

He fell silent, trying to formulate his thoughts.

Dalton shifted restlessly, "Are you going somewhere with this?"

"Yes," Ben rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I… am an ass. A self-righteous ass, as you so bluntly pointed out. But I like to think that I'm doing this, hunting I mean, for the right reasons. One of those reasons is saving lives, and I can't much do that if I can't figure out what something is and how to kill it.

"You really pulled through on this hunt. Even when I told you to stop, you pushed on and kept at it until you figured out how to put a stop to danger. That takes talent, and that takes balls."

Dalton looked at Ben, unsure as to what he was trying to say.

Ben got tired of beating around the bush, "Is art really what you want to devote the rest of your life to? Because if you don't mind, I need a hunting partner."

"What about your uncle? Seems you really admire his research skills," Dalton asked stiffly.

"To be honest, Uncle Sam can be overbearing at times," Ben smiled wryly. "And I couldn't think of anyone more capable than you. What do you say?"

Dalton was silent for a moment, his face turned toward the school.

Finally, he sighed and walked back over to the Camaro, opening the passenger door and slinging his bookbag into the backseat.

"You know, we really need to address the fact that I can't tell if you're joking when you say you have a literal Uncle Sam."

"It's a twenty hour drive to Wyoming. We better have more to talk about than that," Ben started the ignition.


End file.
